


Don't Tell My Crush I'm a Wild Mage!

by Sommerset



Category: Spell/Sword
Genre: Angst and Humor, Multi, Romance, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 18:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sommerset/pseuds/Sommerset
Summary: A tournament, a heist, and that sneaky bastard called Love. Explosions, magical duels, sword fights, and shenanigans included at no additional cost.





	1. Chapter 1

Sing in me, O Muse

of fire.

Fire that burns the grass

fire that is the grass

perennial

sure and rude

on the hillside.

Sing of fire and sing of the night

when.

The night when She saw Fire and

everything after.

The tournament of wands,

the beloved annihilation,

and

everything after.

Help me remember fire

And forget

everything after.

* * *

 

CHAPTER ONE

Rime woke up.

She enjoyed nearly a full minute of quiet as she hovered on the doorstep of consciousness. Her eyes moved without concern around the room and took careful notes in preparation for her mind’s arrival. The room was small, wood-paneled, with a window that was open just a crack. Sunlight rambled into the room, delayed only slightly by the faded red curtains. Out of the corner of her right eye she could see a small table that seemed to be overflowing with small objects, but neither eye had authorization to turn her head without a stamp of approval from her late-arriving consciousness, so they made a note to inspect it more closely once the neck muscles were available for work orders. 

Then her eyes turned down to the bed she was laying in - and more crucially - the quilt.

The bed was narrow, but her small frame had plenty of space. The quilt was pulled up to her collarbone and was the most unsettling shade of blue that either eye had witnessed. Her right eye pegged it as a howling aquamarine, while her left eye insisted that it was closer to a ravenous teal. The two eyes began arguing, trying to force the abusive color of the quilt into some recognizable tone and a small headache began to form directly between the two. Her mind walked into the office shaking the last bit of sleep off its coat and tripped right over the headache. Both eyes apologized profusely but it was too late. Rime awakened into a tiny headache, under a hideous blue quilt, and at the start of a horrible mood. 

To be fair, except for the quilt, this was commonly how she woke up on most mornings.

_ Quilt - ugly - why -why quilt. Why quilt.  _ Rime tried to push the offending blanket onto the floor, but discovered that her arms were not responding.  _ Arms. Dumb arms. Legs. Kick!  _ Her legs remained still.  She managed a small growl and turned her head towards the small table beside the bed.  _ At least my neck is working. Now what is going on? _

The table was covered with several objects: two flower pots - one with a  red flower, one with two blue flowers, a large glass basin of water, several alchemical bottles containing liquids and powders of various colors, a small glass tube with open ends, a gray bowl with a spoon handle sticking out - residue of some brown substance on both, a potted plant with red flowers.  Rime blinked and looked back up at the ceiling.  _ Someone has been feeding me. Am I sick? A fever or-- _

Her headache flared and she saw an image in her mind: towers of ice. She felt certain it was a memory and not a dream, but some caution kept her from examining it. She let it go and felt only relief as she stared up at the ceiling.   _ Something happened. Something happened to me. And someone has been taking care of me. _

She felt a small surprise at this last thought, but left it also unexamined.  _ Shouldn’t I be concerned? I’m completely defenseless here - well, except for this quilt. _

Rime let herself float on this uncharacteristic lack of concern. She took some deep breaths and concentrated on her right hand, on feeling the blood and bone that connected it to her heart. She imagined pulling her arm on a marionette’s string. Her hand came out from under the quilt like a stick floating up out of a murky pond, distant and slow. She touched her face and felt the dim recognition of flesh and teeth and the whorls in each fingertip.

_ Why should I be concerned? I am alive. I am warm. I’m not hungry.  _ She stopped for a moment and checked for any dire signals from her stomach and found nothing but a vague miasma below her chin.  _ I think I’m not hungry at least. _

She patted her face some more and blew a raspberry through her fingers. 

The room, the hideous quilt, the red flowers, the bowl -- symbols without meaning, a forgotten alphabet. Her memory was a tapestry on a shadowed wall as well. Rime felt like she was very young again, creeping barefoot down the midnight halls of her father’s house, quiet and untroubled. She didn’t recognize herself and liked the feeling. 

With a little more focus, her left hand also escaped the quilt’s grip.  It looked much the same as her right hand but for some reason it seemed slightly more suspect, she narrowed her eyes at it a moment before pushing both hands together to make a tiny spire in front of her face.  _ This is going well. I should work on my feet next. _

The muffled sound of a voice caught her attention. It was young and bright brass and coming closer. And singing:

_ I got my black shirt on _

_ I got my black gloves on _

_ I got my ski mask on _

_This shit's been too long_  

Rime didn’t recognize the song or the voice. She let both hands fall to her chest.  _ I should defend myself.  _ She chuckled at how ludicrous the thought was. Somewhere inside of her, an alarm light was blinking red, but she ignored it.  _ How can I be so calm? I’m never this calm. It’s nice - like floating.  _  She folded her hands, right over left, and listened to the song and singer approach.

_ I got my twelve gauge sawed off _

_ I got my headlights turned off _

_ I'm 'bout to bust some shots off _

_ I'm 'bout to dust some cops off _

_ Cop killer, better you than me _

_ Cop killer-- _

The door of the room burst open, door slamming loudly against the wall. The singer took a deep breath, to give the next verse the proper emotional heft but stopped mid-inhalation. Their eyes locked on Rime’s open eyes, vague surprise clear on their green face.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Mercury said, “ Final. Good.”

The young goblin moved into the room, both hands occupied with a wooden tray that carried a bowl filled with some sort of amorphous broth. Rime made some quick observations before responding.  _ Taller? No, hair longer. Time has passed, how much time?  _ She wasn’t deeply versed in the aging process of goblins. During their brief association, Mercury had acted and appeared to match up with the human age of ten. Rime squinted at the goblin’s sharp-chin and wide eyes.  _ Now she looks to be...ten, but with longer hair.  _

“Yes, I am awake,” Rime said - or at least those were the words her lips attempted to form, all that actually came out was a sort of raspy mutter.

“Blerrerrerr to you too,” Mercury set the tray down on the side table, as well as nimbly scooping up the dirty bowl just prior in one smooth motion. “This means you can feed yourself.”

Rime growled softly. The golden, floating feeling was starting to evaporate, but she brushed the regret aside with irritation. She thought of her lips and teeth and tongue like new puppets and pulled the strings with great care. “How much time has passed?”

The goblin was already turning away, dirty bowl and spoon in the crook of her arm. She stopped and looked back as the question caught her. “Since you went to sleep and we started watering you? Basically forever.”

Mercury smiled letting none of her teeth show and departed, leaving the wooden door open.

“Warrttt. I mean, wait!,” Rime grimaced, and took two short breaths.  _ We _ . Mercury wasn’t her only caretaker. She had met the young goblin in the company of her older sister, an archaeologist and scholar named Xenon. Could the two sisters be watching over her, along with --  _ towers of ice, flying, a stone the size of the sun - falling then flying away, flying, her flying, someone touching her face, touching her hair, wind, the sun setting, golden light along the edge of the sky, along the edge of a cloak, a brown cloak, someone touching her hair.   _ Her hands grasped at the hideous blue quilt and fought the memory, wrestled with it, not sure if she was pulling it closer or pushing it away.  _ Jonas. Where is Jonas? _

Loud footfalls came down the hall, followed by her answer.

The squire stumbled in, bashing his elbow into the side of the open door. He didn’t seem to notice, just stared at her with his mouth open wide. He was wearing a dirty, white shirt open at the neck. His sleeves were pushed up and in both hands he had a potato. Jonas stepped into the room, his mouth bending up in a wide grin, and his eyes beginning to glisten.

“Stop it, stop it right now,” Rime demanded, carefully with her marionette mouth.

Jonas laughed and knelt at the side of her bed, arms bent carefully to not press on her. He looked over at her and said simply, “ Welcome back.”

Rime looked at her guardian and could not fight back a smile. Then she saw his beard.

Jonas continued to talk, but the words slipped away as her horror grew. To call it a ‘beard’ was a gross misuse of the term. A ‘beard’ suggests some sort of contiguous growth of hair on the chin, but this seemed more as if several types of moss had started colonies on varied regions of the squire’s face and were engaged in some sort of floral war of attrition. The patches of hair were different colors, different textures, and separated by what seemed to be devoutly held differences of political, religious, and aesthetic belief. The squire was still talking, but he stopped in shock when Rime’s hand landed on his mouth in a poorly choreographed flop.

“You are going to shave. You are going to shave every day. In fact, hand me a knife. Let’s do this now.”

Jonas ruefully pushed her hand down, “ I thought it was coming in pretty good.”

“No. No.  _ No. _ Knife, please.”

“I really don’t think you should be holding anything sharp just yet. I’ll shave, okay? I’ll do it tonight.”

“Until then, can you hold something in front of the lower half of your face?” Rime shuddered and laid back in the bed. “Actually this is okay, I just won’t actually look at you - just up at the ceiling.”

Jonas laughed and pushed himself up to a standing position. He leaned way over her bed, imposing his face into her field of vision. He held up the two potatoes that he still carried and waved them menacingly.

“Ugh, stop it. Why do you even have potatoes?”

“I was chopping them up for dinner when Mercury told me you were awake.”

“I’ve been eating your cooking. No wonder I’m an invalid.”

Jonas let his hands drop, his face abruptly serious. “It’s been months, Rime. Months since the  _ asteroid _ \- almost a year, I think. I...I didn’t know if you were ever going to wake up.”

_ Asteroid. Wake up.  _ Rime blinked. “Towers of ice,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Jonas said.

She felt the last of sleep leave her, the last of the floating feeling go away. Rime was awake and she remembered everything.

Rime reached out for the squire’s hand and they held a potato between them for a moment. She growled and Jonas murmured an apology before letting both of the vegetables fall on the quilt and taking both of her hands in his.

Rime’s memory was perfect, always had been. A record unmarred by time, by uncertainty, by the simple fog of the relentless calendar.  She remembered everything, even when she wished she could forget. This was useful when recalling the pages of the hundreds of books she had read, less so when the memories bled, or cried, or sang. She had made a sort of library in her head to keep everything in order. The doors were swinging open and she did not want to step inside. But she had, it was already done. She locked eyes with her squire and made her voice remain calm.

“The Hunt. Linus,” Rime said, a world in each name.

Jonas squeezed her hands, “No sign of them. We found a good place to hide, we moved a few times, kept our guard up - but we haven’t seen them.  Xenon has a theory, but I didn’t really understand it. I just thought maybe they gave up?”

Rime snorted, and the squire shrugged to admit that it was wishful thinking. 

“Well, I’m awake now. And if they come, we’ll deal with them,” Rime gambled and found she had the control and energy to push herself slowly up into a sitting position. “Though, hopefully not now. I don’t want to fight them with nothing but potatoes.”

“Oh man, your hair is getting long, Rime!” Jonas grinned. “ I didn’t notice because you’ve been laying in bed.”

Rime shook her head slowly, feeling the edges of her hair brush against her shoulders and down the back of her neck. She let go of the squire’s hands and pulled two handfuls in front of her eyes. “Completely white now,” she said bemused.

“Oh no, there’s one little patch that is still brown,” Jonas reached behind her head and began straightening her hair with his fingers, “  You can’t see it, but it’s definitely there.”

_ Still a little brown. Each time I pull too hard on the wild magic, it spreads, like I’m being used up.  _ When she first met Jonas, it had just been a small flash of white in her hair.   _ What does it mean when my hair is completely white? Does it mean my time is up? And is this Jonas playing with my hair? I do not want him to know how much I’m enjoying this. Does he know how to braid?  _ She looked up into his eyes, carefully avoiding the monstrosity on his chin, and could not fight off another smile.

A goblin appeared through the open doorway, arms overflowing with books, scrolls, what appeared to be a small stone jar, and a bouquet of dried twigs. She was taller than her sister, Mercury - hair tied in a sensible knot at the back of her head, a smudge of what was hopefully ink under her left eye. Xenon dumped her load in a rough heap on top of Rime’s feet and smiled with excitement.

“I’m so glad you’re finally awake! A year and a day, exactly - almost to the minute, if Mercury’s observations can be trusted. Which they CAN NOT,” the archaeologist yelled over her shoulder towards the hallway where perhaps a sullen, younger goblin lurked.

“A year? And a day?” Rime pushed the squire’s hands away from her. “That’s so ---”

“--specific! Almost like a cradle-tale, though there are some similar measurements of magical time in the tradition of the elves of Seroholm,” Xenon sat on the edge of the bed, pushing books aside with her hip. “We would need to have more examples of similar arcane recovery periods to know if your experience is atypical. Or perhaps it is determined by the amount of effort you expended, or perhaps the type of manipulations you did. We’ll know more after we acquire the Magus Delirium from the Grand Wizard’s Vault.”

“What are you talking about? The Vault is a myth - maybe apocryphal at best,” Rime snorted. 

Xenon folded her green fingers into a complicated sigil of anxiety and then sighed, “You haven’t told her, have you Jonas?”

Jonas sputtered, “She’s only been awake a few minutes! I thought it would be okay to --”

“-- to kiss and hug for a while, I get it,” Xenon began to rifle through the pile of scrolls and books, “It is fortuitous to say the least, if she had woken a few days from now we would have missed our opportunity for a whole ‘nother year.”

“We were not kissing!” the squire yowled in agony.

Rime opened her mouth to confirm, but seeing Jonas’ discomfort she decided to focus on more important matters for the moment. “What opportunity? What are you talking about?”

Xenon grinned in excitement, “Oh, I can’t wait to finally have time to talk to you. Jonas is helpful, but his memory and understanding of events is, well, it’s a little limited.”

“We were  _ not kissing _ .”

“Yes, yes, okay,” the goblin scooted a little closer to Rime, “ Since the  _ asteroid _ my research into the Precursors has been somewhat stymied - hard to go into a library easily or communicate with colleagues when you’re hiding the most notorious criminal on the planet in your spare room. I had to spend the time somehow, so I started studying - well -  _ you _ . Wild mages, your experiences, the Hunt. I couldn’t go into a library, but I could at least theorize on something that I had witnessed in the field along with the reports of your guardian. It lead me down some interesting avenues and I realized that what I was theorizing I had actually read before. A Grand Unified Theory of Magic with wild magic as the opposite side of the equation.”

Rime leaned forward. “I searched everywhere for any scrap of information about wild mages, most of it is folklore or bad poetry. The Hunt worked systematically to control and destroy any concrete information about them, that’s what sent me down the wrong path when I met Jonas, that’s why I was looking for the Gray Witch.”

“Exactly,” Xenon nodded. “But, as I said - all of the common lore doesn’t make sense with the reality of what you’ve done and what you’ve experienced. So, there must be a place where all of the true data is stored. And that’s what got my memory going - I read a journal as part of another project  years ago that kept mentioning the Grand Wizard’s Vault in Valeria. But it didn’t speak of it as a legend, but as a physical place that was used to store magical texts and artifacts too dangerous to be available to the public in the Primex Logain. The Hunt was formed in Valeria by the wizards there, by the Council of Nine itself - if there is a trove of actual information about wild mages, that’s where I would guess it would be.”

“Guess? Sure. But how could we ever be sure?”

“Certainty is a hat for cowards! That’s what my dad used to say,” Xenon crossed her arms in triumph. “But it is just a thin supposition, supported by nothing but air. It would take months of careful research, some detective work, all while evading the notice of the authorities and the agents of the globe-spanning organization that seeks your death.”

Rime blinked, then sighed. “You already did all of that, didn’t you?”

“YES!” the goblin fairly bounced with excitement, “ It started as a hobby, just something to pass the time - but I’ve tracked down enough old tomes, a few manifests - enough to be reasonably sure that I am correct. A codex called the Magus Delirium was commissioned by the First Hunter Demora Sallow in 1120 VA, then sent for review by the Council in 1122, then it just  _ vanished _ . It’s in the Vault, I’m sure of it.”

“Okay, I’ll bite - where’s the Vault, then?”

“Oh, it’s in the Silver Spire.”

“The Silver Spire!” Rime yelped, then laughed to cover her embarrassment. “Oh, well then. Let’s just go run get it. It’s only the seat of the Council, protected by the most powerful wizards in the world….all of which think I’m a demon and would kill me on sight.”

Xenon nodded, “There are some obstacles, it is true.”

Rime stared at the goblin in outraged disbelief. Xenon moved even closer, worming her way to a sitting position shoulder-to-shoulder with the wild mage. Spreading her hands out like a performer in front of them both, she spoke with conviction. “Look, Jonas has told us so much about you and your journey. I know what happened to all of the other wild mages, what you’re afraid will happen to you. That you’ll go mad, that you’ll become a danger to yourself and others. That’s what everyone fears about wild mages, but what if it’s not true? Or if it is true but there’s information that can help you?”

“Why are you helping me?” Rime demanded. “I only knew you for a few hours before I fell asleep for a year.”

“Because you saved the world, you jerk!” the goblin elbowed her. “We all did, and that means we have a freaking bond. Plus we’ve spent pretty much all of your gold at this point, so there’s some financial restitution to be considered. But also, I just really want to know.”

_ I remember when I just wanted to know things _ . Rime grunted. “Okay, so you’ve had months to work on this and research it. You have some sort of plan, some sort of plan that needs me to work. Me and my magic, I would assume.”

“Exactly!”

“First we would need to make our way to Valeria, which could be a problem because --”

“--oh, we’re already here!”

“--because I have family here and it’s the one place where wild mages would be immediately recognized and attacked,” Rime sighed, not even finding the energy for anger.  _ I miss my coma.  _ “What do you mean we are already here?”

“Well, I needed to do research - and this is the source. And where better to hide a wild mage than the one place where they should never, ever go? Plus -- “Xenon leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper, “Sideways told me in passing that his boss isn’t welcome here, he would only come with express invitation.”

“I like that guy,” Jonas chimed in.

“Please shut up,” Rime commanded. “Okay, tell me the rest. I’ve been conscious for a whole hour now, lay it on me.”

Xenon hopped up to her knees, trampling the hideous blue quilt beneath her as she spoke. “Normally it would be impossible to gain access to the Silver Spire, normal citizens are never permitted - and even wizards only go when called by the Council. Except for one time a year.”

The wild mage’s eyes widened, her hands went to the books in her memory, and suddenly she knew what Xenon was about to say and dreaded it.

“Once per year, the magic schools of Valeria all compete in a city-wide contest, the Tournament of Wands. A series of magical duels - any student in any school can enter, at least for the preliminaries. But then! The semi-finalists have their matches in an arena at the base of the Silver Spire! It’s the one way we get onto the grounds without anyone being the wiser.”

Rime held up a hand, still with some difficulty. “So, in your plan, I would pretend to be a normal wizard, which would  mean joining a normal wizard school.  Then battle my way to the semi-finals so we can get into the Spire, and then…?”

Xenon and Jonas looked across the bed at each other and then turned back to Rime with fevered grins.

“AND THEN THE HEIST!” the two shouted together.

“I’m going back to sleep,” Rime said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts from the journal of Xenon, collated by an unknown researcher.

**[1183 VA. Collated excerpts. For review, First Librarian ONLY. Tangential evidence, related to Torossian Apocrypha. The pages are light-scans of a personal journal belonging to a goblin scholar. The internal dating of the document appears to be accurate.**

**Let me know if I should keep digging. P--gram.]**

 

_ 1164 VA SHAME Falls, 10th of Fangspan _

 

**[There is a crude drawing of a rock that is on fire, it appears to have been abandoned before completion by the artist - assumed same author as journal.]**

 

_ 1164 VA , 13th of Fangspan _

New journal. First page. Well, second page technically - I started scribbling on the first.

Why does this feel so strange? Unfamiliar, like writing with a hand that’s fallen asleep?

I miss my old journal.

I miss--

 

_ 1164 VA, 14th of Fangspan _

Change is the one law. Professor Trowel said that in  _ Doorways and Demons: the Arkanic Collapse _ . I love that book. I can’t believe that I left my copy in Pice with Mom. I can’t believe that I was right, that the  _ asteroid _ came, I can’t believe that we stopped it. I can’t believe that my journal is gone.

I know you are a very nice journal. You have plenty of pages, your paper smells nice, you take ink well. I even like the strange dark blue leather that you are bound in. But, please don’t take it personally, it’s just my old journal and I - well, we went through a lot together. My notes on the site in the Sarmadi wastes, the inscription I deciphered on that Syprian shield, the Arkanic cognates I was working on. All gone. Paper is nice, but it burns. It gets wet, it gets old, bugs eat it, it turns to dust. I wish I didn’t have to trust so much of myself to paper and ink. Because when it is gone there is no calling back that version of me. That time, those thoughts - I can never listen to that person again.    
And the things I’ve seen and done - just in the past couple of weeks!

I could try and write it all down again now, while the past few days are fresh - 

No. It seems wrong. It seems like cheating.

Change is the one law. So I’ll change.

Before I was a scholar of some repute, now I am - what? A traveler, an adventurer, a hero?I got caught up in the world’s story for a change when before I just read it. Do I want to go back to reading?

I don’t know. I don’t even know if that’s an option to be honest. If it were just Mercury and me we could vanish back into obscurity, apologize to mother, even. But with Jonas and his charge in tow, we’re wanted criminals now.

Now that’s a word: criminal.

I...like it? Mother would HATE it.

I love it.

I LOVE it. Shivers up my spine love it.

That’s what I am now then. A criminal.

And you are a criminal’s journal. One that I can fill with all of my plans, my targets, my crime-related musings. If anyone read my old journal, they would think I was nothing but a dusty old librarian - filing scrolls in order of age and civilization of origin. But if anyone reads this journal, they’ll think about the feats of daring, the fabulous treasure that I purloined, the impossible heists that I pulled in my dastardly career.

A preposterous notion. 

But I love it.

**[Nothing pertinent in this section, except for mention of Jonas and ‘charge’. Included for continuity and example of author’s voice and mannerisms. The next several entries are of little interest - mainly concerning details on travel, irritation with the author’s younger sister ‘ Mercury’, and some surprisingly effusive sections discussing some prior sexual/romantic liaisons. I have not included them. - P--gram]**

 

_ 1164 VA, 24th of Fangspan _

Jonas cried today. It was embarrassing and horrible. And Mercury just left the room! Just left the room and I had to console a sobbing human all alone.

I’m not made of wood. He is truly distressed and the situation is sad. But I only knew Rime for a few hours before she went to sleep, so it’s hard for me to really feel grief that she has fallen into what appears to be a coma. He held out hope for the first week that she would awaken, her physical needs were easy enough to attend to -- which he did without complaint. Her body’s instinctual behaviours seem to remain intact, even though her mind is not present. Water placed in her mouth is swallowed, along with food - but she only needs occasional sustenance. Thankfully her digestive process seems to have similarly slowed and Jonas has indicated that the removal of her excrement is not onerous.

I suppose it just hit him all at once? We’ve been moving constantly, hoping to keep the Hunt off our trail - he’s been telling us (and himself) constantly that ‘any day now she’ll wake up’ or ‘she sleeps longer the more magic she uses, and she used a LOT this time, so it’s fine!’. 

We were sitting around the table, finishing up dinner. I passed some sweet potatoes to Mercury and then offered the human some and he was just sitting there, tears rolling down his cheeks. I tried patting his hand ( even though I found it mortifying). He seemed grateful and pulled himself together a little bit.

And then he started talking. Well, more rambling incoherently for a while.

I just kept patting his hand and hoping that it would be over soon.

Jonas kept going on and on about how much Rime meant to him and how scared he was that she would die or never wake up at all. I told him what I thought would be comforting? That as long as she was alive, there was a chance she would wake up.Finally he apologized and lumbered off to check on her again.

Does he not know he’s in love with her? I only saw them together for a few hours before she collapsed, so I don’t have much to go on for their relationship. She seemed to treat him as she would a dog of less than average intelligence. My mother would approve. It seems to really have him twisted up inside. He is completely devoted to her, almost his entire identity is wound up in her well-being. I’m honestly a little concerned if she does die that he my simply fall apart into rocks and dust.

There was one thing he said that caught my interest. A passing mention about the amount of magic she used being related to how long she is unconscious. Why does she go unconscious after this exertion? Do other wild mages do the same? I suddenly realize I have a gap in my education, like a missing tooth. 

Something I don’t know. Something I don’t know. It’s like a children’s rhyme in my head and it makes me smile. Maybe it would help Jonas if he talked about his experiences traveling with Rime? Purely for therapeutic purposes,of course! It isn’t that there are no first or even second-hand accounts of wild mages or their companions in any libraries that I am aware of.

It isn’t that all my research on the Precursors is currently ash and sailing across the stars.

It is not.

**[Fascinating. This scholar, Xenon, was so close to such a power - so close to someone who would become a mass murderer only a short time later and had no way of knowing. It is immaterial to the matter at hand, but I find myself wondering: if she could have known what the future would hold, would she have acted in the same fashion? -P--gram.]**

 

_ 1165 VA, 1st of Shadespan _

21 days since SHAME, since the  _ asteroid. _ A new year begins and where do I stand?

I stand in a ditch, currently. Upwind of our campsite where Jonas is attempting some sort of  curing process for a rabbit pelt. It smells foul and the pelt is ugly and it is about to rain. Mercury is somewhere. I’ve given up on tracking her movements, the little squab is like a tiny vicious shadow. Rime is unchanged.

Is it the pelt that smells foul, or is it me? We’ve been in the woods for several days when we had to change lodgings abruptly in the middle of the night. A servingman came into Rime’s room and recognized her hair. Mercury suggested we simply murder the poor man, but Jonas insisted we pay him off and leave immediately.

Interviewing the squire has proven frustrating. It’s not a problem of him being reticent, that boy loves to talk. It’s just that he remembers imperfectly, understands incompletely, and will scramble his account for no reason I can discern. He’ll be telling me one story, then realize halfway through that it  _ actually _ happened in a different town or that Rime said something like that, but it was actually a week before. We had talked for hours about an escapade they had involving some  _ pitchstone  _ mines and a Syprian dance-lock, it took a lot of effort to keep him on the trail, checking details, doubling back to make sure the story stayed consistent. Then  _ two days later _ he realized he had forgotten to tell me that the wild mage actually  _ had _ collapsed when they opened the door.

As I said, frustrating.

I decided early on that I would not attribute any of the information I gleaned to apply to all wild mages universally, only Rime specifically. Until I find some sort of account of other wild magic users to cross-reference, it would be bad methodology to make any assumptions. For all I know, each wild magic user manifests the  ~~gift affliction~~ effect in completely idiosyncratic ways. However, it would be unwise to ignore the common lore about such people - often it is in tales that the archaeologist finds the whispers of the historical record.

 

Wild Magic Users - Common Lore

Untrained.

No racial limitation. (humans, elves, dwarves, et al. have been reported as WMU)

No class limitation.

No sex limitation.

No age limitation. (though most stories seem to involve mature adults)

Power effects : too varied to list, none that seem beyond the scope of conventional magic. Most of the stories suggest an average person of no particular magical talent suddenly discovering they had the arcane might of an ancient master of the Council of Nine all at once. Most stories do tend towards the destructive type of magic as opposed to other sorts.

All WMU eventually lose their grip on sanity and become a danger to themselves and the populace. Some traditions refer to this as literally ‘becoming a demon’.

 

Wild Magic User - Rime Korvanus

(details vague - source:Jonas)

Comes from a family of wizards - of significant prowess.

Access to wild magic manifested at an early age, approximately 8-10 years old.

Falls unconscious after using wild magic, time unconscious roughly proportional to amount of power exerted.

Maximum time unconscious prior to  _ asteroid _ : 2-3 days

Sanity arguable. WMU has committed several acts of extreme violence and murder, but there are some extenuating circumstances. Uncommunicative about psychological status to others.

Power effects: Varied. But some effects  seem to be beyond the limits of conventional magic ( _ asteroid _ )

 

Any scholar can see the discrepancies between the two lists. If I could only corroborate ANY of it I might actually have something concrete to begin with. Rime seems atypical at the very least of other WMU, but since my information on ‘typical’ WMU is based on the common lore it is unreliable. However - there is one piece that seems firm. The falling asleep part - that is so specific and recognizable. I can’t imagine the purportedly scores of other WMU experiencing the same effect without someone noticing it! They hardly could have been the ‘demons’ that the tales speak of if all you needed to do was wait for them to pass out and then hit them in the head with a blunt instrument. I actually find myself almost a eager as Jonas for our ‘demon’ to wake up - I have so many questions! 

**_[The next few weeks of entries were illegible. -P--gram.]_ **

 

_ 1165 VA, 9th of Swordspan _

A serious question has developed in my research: Is Jonas cute?

I mean, he isn’t. Right? It’s just been too many weeks watching him be nurturing and chop wood. He’s essentially still a child! I’m much older than he is and I could not abide Mercury’s comments if I ever even  _ mentioned _ this idea. But the question remains: Is Jonas cute?

Let’s be analytical. He’s not particularly tall. His hair is flatly awful. He isn’t particularly clean. His face is  _ square _ . He has a SQUARE FACE. A SQUARE SQUIRE.

This is beneath me. I’m a grown goblin and I’m putting my foot down. This is pure environmental attraction - we’re in a remote location, there are no other options, there’s not much to distract us out here in the forest. This is wrong and bad and stupid and I will not abide it.

\-----

Okay, so we made out a little.

**[The next several entries relate a liaison between the scholar and the squire. It doesn’t seem to be pertinent to the Apocrypha, but I will include in the next batch if you...insist. Waiting on review and instructions. -P--gram.]**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonas chops wood.

Jonas was splitting wood. He set a log on top of a broad, flat stump; raised his maul and brought it down. The wood parted with a satisfying shout into two clean halves. He picked up the first half and put it on the stump. He raised his maul and brought it down - another satisfying eruption of sound as the wood flew apart, almost like a dog’s bark.  He picked up the second half and put it on the stump. He raised his maul and brought it down. Now the one log was four logs, but better shaped for the stove. They had been prepared, cut down. He picked up the four pieces and stacked them carefully with the bark towards the sky. The squire had only been working for a few minutes, so the pile was small - braced between two thin saplings. He walked back to the stump and picked up another large log to split. He set it on the stump’s face. He raised his maul.

_ She’s awake. _ A thought wormed its way up through the machinery.  _ She’s awake. _

He smiled and brought the maul down. Now everything could happen.

The first few days she had been asleep he had been unconcerned. Then weeks filled the calendar and he had begun to feel a hollow pit between his eyes, a trench being dug in his stomach. He had tried to explain the feeling to Xenon, but he was much better at splitting wood than making conversation. Before he met Rime, he had been lost. He had been a stray dog wandering from town to town, eating scraps, howling at the moons. But Rime had put his collar back on, held a firm grip to his leash. There was something so  _correct_ about having her in charge, of not really having to worry about the path they took. A squire needs a knight to serve, just as a knight needs a lord. After six months he had finally faced the possibility that she would never wake up. He had thought  _I am a stray dog again -_ and it was too much for him to bear.

Thankfully, Xenon and Mercury had been there. They had kept him busy, kept him splitting wood and mixing elixirs for Rime and cleaning bed linens and cooking food and anything, anything, anything. Anything to beat back the gray.

Jonas stacked four more pieces of split wood on the pile and turned to pick up another log. And the gray swept across the grass, riding on the wind, and poured down his throat again.

He choked and fell to his knees. It tasted like metal and like water and just a tiny bit like lavender.  _No. Not now - she's awake now, this isn't -- no!_

Then he felt  _her_ hands on his shoulders,  _her_   lips on the top of his head. The Gray Witch walked from behind him and stared down at his gasping form.

_ What do you want? _  Jonas tried to shout in his mind. His lips were shut by the gray, his throat and nostrils full of it.  _What do you ever want? Just tell me!_

The Gray Witch smiled and turned and walked away. She was in no hurry. Her gray skin like shale, like forgotten stone; at last gone behind the trees of the clearing. Jonas coughed and found he could breathe again. He fell forward on his hands and gasped air into his lungs and clung to the green earth, tearing the grass with his fingers.

Over the months of Rime's slumber, he had talked with Xenon about many things - about his worry about Rime, about Gilead and his banishment, even about the dim thoughts he had for his own future. But one thing he had never mentioned was the Gray Witch - and how often she and the gray came to him these days. Once a month, once a week - sometimes for days on end she would come. And never a word would she speak. Only her amused stare, only the lightest touch of her hands, her fond kiss on his brow. Jonas rolled over on his back and felt his heart and lungs begin to slow.  _She doesn't need to speak, I guess. I know what she's saying._

Her eyes, her touch, the gray in his lungs all said the same thing. They said:  _you are mine._

Jonas groaned and stood up. He stuck the maul in the stump with a grunt and went looking for his sword.

* * *

 

Hands tight on the hilt of his good steel, Jonas moved through the exercises and let his mind empty out. It was always comforting how easily he could clear his mind of thought if just given something to focus on.  _Rime would say because it's easy work to clean out room that has only one chair and a rug in it._

He smiled and shifted his grip. He was sure the stances he was practicing had actual names, but most of them he had forgotten or never known - except for the signature Roland Grip that his instructor had favored. So now as he went through the forms, they were mainly numbers or bad mnemonics.  _Four to Five. Block . Better Block. Up Stab, Stab down. Switch hand to better BLOCK. Six. Double Six. Reverse Six with a Seven Top. Rabbit Attack.  Sideways Parry!_

Jonas stopped and sighed.  _I'm getting sloppier. I've needed someone to train with for a while, I'm just getting rusty._ He looked at the sword itself and saw that the metal itself was also showing a few spots of rust near the hilt and pommel. Jonas gasped in horror and trotted over to his traveling satchel to grab a cleaning rag and oil. The satchel was plain brown leather, scarred and scorched from travel and the occasional magical misfire. He had taken to keeping his scabbard and sword bundled with it in a closet near the front door of the cottage, only bringing it all out when he practiced. The scabbard was almost as battered as the satchel, a proper home for his common sword. Jonas pulled it free as well, vowing to pull the scabbard apart as well and make sure no foul rust or mildew was spreading within.

Also bundled with the satchel was a second sword. 

Jonas sat down his own steel,  his rag and oil and picked up the second sword. It was wrapped from pommel to point in dark green silk, not a speck of the metal showed. But he could see it in his eye as clear as the moment he pulled it from the well near his Master's tower. As clear as the moment before when he had thrown it in the well after he murdered his Master. The silver sword, Hecate - the sword of heroes. He thought about pulling it free of its shroud and feeling its sweet weight in his hands - but he knew it was pointless. The sword had no magic in his hands, it was just pretty metal. 

He laid Hecate back down to sleep on. He picked up his own sword, the brown wood and simple steel a comfort. He put a dab of oil on his rag and set to scrubbing the tiny flecks of red rust away.

A thought crept up through the machinery.  _She's awake._ And he smiled.


End file.
